Vampiric Pastries
by Waffleasaurus
Summary: Lydia is assigned a new Thane, which makes her consider things such as her life, her love, and her bellybutton. Lydia/OC Dragonborn. Rated for blood, gore, sex, alcohol, and large inebriated Nord warriors.
1. Chapter 1

After her first Thane had died in a tragic incident involving three blue flowers, an ornery old woman, and a frog, Lydia had had plenty of time to think about things. Sitting beside the fire in her home, she contemplated many things, such as the proper way a beheading was administered, how to best braid hair and what purpose a bellybutton really serves in later life. Chiefly among her thoughts, however, was whether she was ready to accept another Thane.  
Most Housecarls were assigned their Thanes, but as she and her previous charge had been ... how had the Jarl put it? "involved", and his death had been especially gory and sudden, she had been offered a choice between early retirement or the next acceptable Thane in need of a Housecarl. As far as Lydia could tell, an "acceptable Thane" was someone unlikely to begin ravishing her on top of a banquet table. To be fair, that had only happened once, and almost twenty years before her birth.  
Lydia shook her head, dispelling her conveniently placed introductory flashback. Today, she reminded herself, is a very important day. It was the day she would meet her (maybe) Thane and face the choice between a life of boredom or a life of servitude. Most people thought her a whore because she and her Thane had been in a relationship. In truth, that relationship had been one of the most fulfilling things in her life and ...

She remembered sitting beside the fire with Rognak, laughing at his wit. Remembered watching him deck an uppity bard. Remembered making love in his bedroll, sheets rubbing against her face. Remembered watching his head crumple inward. Remembered the blood gout out of a crack in his forehead. Remembered gore dripping from his open mouth onto his tusks. Scary ass frog.

She flashed back to reality and realized she was curled on the floor, sobbing. She made up her mind. No matter what, she was turning the Thane down. She would just quietly inform Jarl Balgruuf and he would be assigned to Anya, the next available Housecarl. Anya was way more beautiful than her anyway, and she knew exactly how to make men swoon. Anya could probably make women swoon too, come to think of it.  
Lydia slowly rose to her feet and pulled on a leather tunic and pants. She wiped her face and pulled her hair back into an elegant (or at least half presentable) ponytail. As she left, she tucked Rognak's amulet inside her shirt. It was her only link to him now.  
The "walk" to the Palace took less than five minutes as she was excited to get this over with so that she could get home, get drunk, and have a good cry. It was less a walk then a run. She blew past children (attracting yells), men (attracting curses), and women (attracting thrown vegetables).  
Opening one of the double doors of the Palace always released a warm blast of mead-scented air into the face of the opener. Usually, Lydia stopped or at least slowed a bit to enjoy this phenomenon, but she hurried through this time, which was so off that a maid cleaning by the door actually did a double take.  
Lydia walked up the stairs and stood at attention a respectful distance from the Jarl, who was in a heated discussion with one of her advisors. Minutes passed. Lydia's posture slipped slightly. After a little while longer, she cleared her throat. Balgruuf looked up and jumped. "Ah, Lydia. I, uh, didn't see you there. I assume you're here for your assignment?" the Jarl asked, quickly regaining his composure.  
"Yes, about that, I have decided that -" Lydia was interrupted by a cough from the advisor standing to her left.  
"Yes, yes, well, that is wonderful, however the Dragonborn has evidently decided not to grace us with his presence. He has just been spotted in a bar, drinking like he has sprung a leak." The advisor looked slightly proud of his wit.  
"Lydia? Do us a favor and go get him." Balgruuf didn't wait for a response and immediately went back to bickered with the advisor. "Ahm, I've decided not to accept him?" It came out as a question, and both men ignored her. Lydia rolled her eyes and headed out. She assumed that the Thane (she really needed to learn his name; she simply couldn't keep referring to him as "the Thane") was drinking in the Bannered Mare as that was Whiterun's largest establishment that sold alcohol. She strolled, slowly this time, down the large stairs in front of the Palace.  
Lydia couldn't help but to feel offended that Thane (that was his name now, she decided) had decided to snub the ceremony. She knew it was ridiculous, but she took his rejection slightly personally. She wondered why, exactly, he had decided not to attend his own appointment to Thane. Most true Nords, actually just most people, enjoyed being honored. But being honored for what? She still had no clue what Thane had done to deserve a Housecarl.  
A minute later, she opened the doors to the Bannered Mare, quickly aside as three large Nords staggered out waving mugs and slurring out drinking songs. One tripped and fell, catching himself on both of his friends, grunting something about vampiric pastries. Another appeared to agree and all three slumped down the street. Typical Nord behavior, reflected Lydia, hoping that Thane wouldn't be a drunkard. She liked a man that could handle his alcohol, but drinking until you believed that wheat products were going to suck your blood is not "handling". She remembered that she was going to turn him down anyway, and felt silly. She stepped inside the inn, surveying her surroundings.  
Drunk Nords abound, the center of attention was a man simultaneously dancing, drinking, and complaining about Whiterun's "abysmal security". A thin man led six enormous men in a drinking song while he juggled bottles of wine. A small hooded figure sat in a corner, surrounded by empty bottles. And a woman was dancing on top of a table while people flicked gold at her.  
Lydia was trying to decide which could possibly be a hero worthy of Thanehood when the innkeeper approached her. "You're looking for him." The innkeeper pointed towards the slight man in the corner. "You sure arrived quick, he just placed a request."  
Lydia was puzzled, but decided that the small, dark man would be as good of a place to start as any other. She strolled over and realized two things simultaneously: he was the most attractive man she had ever seen, and he was the most inebriated man she had ever seen. He rocked back and forth slowly, his eyes at half-mast, humming a little as he took a swig from a bottle.  
The bottle slipped from his fingers, splashing both him and Lydia as it shattered on the floor. His eyes followed it down, then back up her legs. His gaze stopped for a moment on her breasts and then continued up to her face. "You the whore?" His voice was quiet and controlled even though he was way past the "vampiric pastry" stage of alcohol consumption. His eyes drifted closed for a moment, giving her a chance to study his face. He had the high cheekbones of an elf, and his Dunmer skin was a unique purple color. All his features were all hard-edged, there wasn't a single round or soft feature. In short, he looked chiseled from stone, even while drunk.  
"The whore?" she asked, shaking her head and frowning in confusion. His eyes snapped open, and he regarded her with interest. "Ah'll tehk taht sn 'o." Lydia must have frowned, since he cleared his throat, blinked, and tried again: "I'll take that as a," his eyes closed again and he swayed violently, "no." "Are you ... alright?" she was becoming concerned. He looked almost unconscious. He grinned, unexpectedly.  
"Awwwhh... Youh care, dahll. Ah dun't deservh yah." He looked up at her with a dreamy face and stood up, half fell. He caught himself on the table, stepped forward, stepped back, stepped forward, and kissed her.  
His lips were soft, warm, and he tasted like a mixture of wine and mead. Lydia felt herself responding instinctively. He swayed a bit more, and began to snore. He was perfectly still for about ten seconds, then swayed and toppled backwards. He bashed his head on a table leg, toppling a bottle of wine onto his head, emitting a CLONK. After all that, he was well and truly out for the count. Lydia stood still, unsure about what to do. She was about to leave him when he twitched a bit and belched. At least he's still alive, she thought. But that means I can't really leave him on the floor. Dammit. She frowned, and made up her mind. She'd rent him a room, but that was it. She was leaving after that.  
She ended up staying for a good ten minutes after renting the room, just trying to get him positioned comfortably on the cheap bed. Everytime she put him on his back, he rolled over and tried to suffocate himself in his pillow. Everytime she put him on his side, he rolled until he fell of the bed. Finally, he ended up on facedown, half on and half off the bed. One arm and a leg hung off the bed, while his face was turned sideways to prevent death by asphyxiation. After arriving at home, she couldn't stop thinking about him and the kiss. How could he just kiss her? How was that okay? A small voice in the back of her head said, He was drunk. He thought she was a whore. How could she kiss him back?


	2. Holy Shite, a Dragon!

Author's Note: There be gore ahead.

Her hands ran through his black hair, pulling it from the ponytail he normally wore. He pulled her closer and kissed from her chest to her shoulder to her neck. She arched her back and moaned, reaching forward to ... poke him in the eye?  
Wren's eyes shot open, dispelling his dream. He realized that he had just stabbed himself in the face with a finger. "Nnnnnnghh," he groaned, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. His head throbbed and he raised his left hand to his head while using his right to push himself off the floor where he had been laying.  
"How much did I drink last night?" he moaned. His question was quickly answered when he rose to his feet to survey the virtual landscape of bottles left behind from his drinking binge. "Shit," he rasped. His throat felt like a desert. Wren slumped through the door to his room and realized that he was in the Bannered Mare. Memories of last night were coming back ... with a start, he realized that the woman he had dreamed about had been here, next to him, last night. Less pleasant memories followed.

His shoulder and back muscles, honed from years of combat, pulled the bowstring back easily and released the arrow. The arrow, which he named Ulfberth, flew into the air and hit the dragon directly in the right nostril. It roared, spraying fire, and crashed right into the already dilapidated watchtower.  
As it hit the ground, a claw managed to catch a guardsman in the neck, tearing through his chainmail like silk. His head detached from his body with not so much as a goodbye, flying a good ten feet and landing at Wren's feet. Blood splattered and Wren winced - these were his good boots. He sprinted at the dragon, slipping his bow over his shoulder. He drew his sword, flipping it so he held it upside down. He vaulted onto the dragon's neck, landing clumsily. His groin smashed into a scale and he made a face under his helmet, freezing for just a moment.  
A moment too long.  
The dragon shook and stood, shaking Wren all about. "Oh for the love of ..." he muttered, grabbing a dragon horn with his left hand. "GGGRRRRRRAOAOAAGHG!" roared the dragon, still shaking. A guard ran up with a longsword and began slicing at its wing membrane. When the dragon turned, distracted, to attack the guard, Wren let go of its horn. He stood up, raised his sword with both hands, tensed his muscles. With every bit of strength left in his body, he brought his blade down toward the dragon's head. And missed. By like a foot.  
"Shit!" Wren shouted, falling off the dragon's head. A claw come down and he rolled out of the way, cursing under his breath. He came up on one knee, driving his sword up toward the dragon's stomach. It hit the scales and instead of giving him the satisfying feeling of cleaving flesh and bone, it shattered into at least three pieces.  
"What is wrong with me today?" Wren exclaimed, rolling out from under the dragon and drawing a dagger. He leaped onto the dragon's back, clenching the dagger in his teeth. He crawled up its spine, almost falling off at least twice. "Monkeyfunster!" yelled Wren, opening his mouth. The dagger promptly fell out. Wren just rolled his eyes. Figures.  
When he got to the dragon's neck, he drew an arrow. He took the arrow, broke it in half, and took the part with the sharp tip. After throwing the other half, Wren stuck the sharp point into the dragon's eye. It roared and wheeled its head around, almost flinging him off. Unfortunately (story of Wren's life) the dragon's sharp movement flung the arrow - and the eyeball - away from Wren. The bloody glob that used to be an optic nerve trailed out of the dragon's empty eye socket, flinging gore onto Wren's helmet. Wren reached up and pulled off his helmet. He had one option left, and he would need his peripheral vision to make sure he wasn't batted off by a claw. Wren pulled off his right glove with his teeth. With his left hand, he held the dragon's eyelid open. With his right, he reached two fingers into the eye socket. Wren felt around until he felt something that seemed important. It was wet, slimy, and squishy. Perfect. He snatched it, pulled, and gore splashed out over his face. A clear fluid was leaking out over his hand. But most importantly, the dragon was laying unmoving on the ground.  
It was then, straightening up, wiping his hands, and giving the remaining soldiers a grim grin, that his life was changed forever. A glow, whirling and twirling like a ... Wren struggled to find a suitable simile ... whore on skooma? Anyway, the glow flowed into him, warm and welcome, like a ... again, like a whore on skooma. "I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!" said one guard.  
"The Dragonborn! You're the Dragonborn!" said another.  
A guard approached him. "If you're really the Dragonborn, you should be able to Shout. Try Shouting."  
Wren frowned. "Shouting? What should I Shout?"  
The guard shrugged.  
"HEY!" shouted Wren. "HO! BISCUITS! MEAD!" He was starting to attract attention. He kept trying, getting more and more desperate as time went by. "MONKEYFUNSTER! BIGGLENOGGLE! SHAZAM! ALLAKAZOO!" He was starting to feel a bit foolish.  
"Screw it."  
He walked back to Whiterun across the plains. If he had taken the main road, he would've run into a courier sent to invite him to an audience with the Jarl. As it was, he went back and got drunk. Reeeeeeally drunk. And dreamed of sexy women and ... blood sucking sweet buns?

Wren shook his head and blew air into his cheeks. He walked up to the innkeeper, who had been studying him while wiping down a glass. He nodded at her and she smiled.  
"Hello. Do you need payment for my room?" asked Wren, hoping she said no. He had no money left.  
"No," she said. "Your whore paid for it." After a moment of confusion, he realized she meant the mystery woman from last night. "She was no whore. Just a visitor." The innkeeper looked slightly skeptical, but nodded anyway.  
To be honest, Wren had no idea what to think about the mystery woman. She had accepted his kiss, returned it even, but she was no whore. She had paid for his room, which is more considerate and caring than any whore he had ever known. Really, more considerate than most people these days.  
"Do you know her name?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.  
"No." And the innkeeper took another glass, spit in it, and began wiping it down. Wren made a mental note not to drink here again and left, pulling a leather jacket on over his plain gray tunic.  
For a moment after he stepped outside, the sun burrowed into his eyeballs like a carnivorous wheat product. Wren took a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust - until a freezing cold wind blew by and encouraged him to keep moving. Walking up to the Palace (he figured that Jarl might have a reward for killing the dragon) he kept attracting strange looks. Women began to stare at him and smirk, wink, or even double take. Men gave him strange and sometimes hostile looks, especially when walking with their women. Wren tried to smile back but his head hurt so badly that he wasn't sure that he wasn't grimacing. Finally, he reached the Palace. Dragging the door open, he stepped inside and immediately felt better. Wren walked up the stairs, approached the Jarl, and ...  
Everyone froze.  
Men frowned. Women giggled. A child pointed. One man whistled. Wren made a face. He didn't have enough brainpower to figure this out right now.  
Jarl Balgruuf looked up. He frowned, raised his eyebrows, lowered them, coughed, and said something unintelligible in a soft voice, which was extremely odd for him, a man used to addressing a noisy court.  
"Pardon?" Wren swallowed.  
The Jarl cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was more gruff than usual. "You're. You're not wearing, well, you're not wearing pants."  
Despite the sinking feeling in his chest, Wren remained somewhat calm. He looked down, slowly. Blinked, slowly. He was, at least, wearing a loincloth. He blew air into his cheeks. "Right, ah, right. Excuse me."  
He walked slowly and kept his head high. He headed into a room to the right of the main hall, and began bashing his head against the wall. "Idiot!" he grunted. "What is wrong with me?"  
"For starters, you're banging your head on a wall." A voice came from behind him. A woman's voice. Wren closed his eyes. He grinned ruefully and spun around, holding his arms out wide. Sitting behind him was the mystery woman.

Author's Note:  
"GGGRRRRRRAOAOAAGHG!". 


	3. Many Sweetrolls Are Not Mentioned

Lydia's first reaction was one of disbelief. She had been sitting, enjoying a piece of bread, when a man strolled in and began bashing his head repeatedly on a wall. This was made slightly more surreal by the fact that he was not, in fact, wearing any trousers. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and blinked again. The man was still there and still resplendent in his pantsless glory.

Admittedly, it was a nice view. His purple, well-muscled legs didn't have a single ounce of fat on them. Lydia could clearly see each muscle in his calf and thigh, although they didn't bulge like some musclehead's legs might. She was jerked from her reverie when he spoke.

"Idiot," he grunted, pausing for a moment in his head-bashing. "What is wrong with me?" he asked, as if some random woman he didn't realize was sitting behind him admiring his legs might respond.

"For starters, you're banging your head on a wall." responded the random woman he didn't realize was sitting behind him admiring his legs (Lydia, for our slower readers).

He spun, holding his arms out wide as if to give her a better view. When he saw her, his eyes widened for a moment and then he grinned slightly sheepishly. She noticed that when he smiled like that his dark almond-shaped eyes drew up at the corners and twinkled a bit. Under different circumstances, her cheeks might have flushed.

"Hey doll, what say you take yours off too so we match?" he drawled, utterly ruining the moment. She frowned at him, deciding not to even grace that with a response. He smirked, stepped forward, and held out his hand. "I'm Wren."

"Lydia," said Lydia (who else) and took his hand, shaking it roughly. He winced slightly and flexed his fingers several times when she let go. Lydia looked down and realized that the hand she had grabbed was swaddled in dirty bandages, sort of like the handwraps that some Nord fighters wore. The theory was, handwraps kept the bones of your hand together so that they didn't fracture or smash when you drove your hand full force into something hard - such as another person's face.

He shook his hand back and forth a bit and looked up at her. For a second she thought he was going to be upset, but then he grinned ruefully. "Quite a grip you get there, lass." he said, cracking his knuckles with the approximate noise of a neck snapping. He looked at her, his head tilted sideways like a curious bird. For the first time, she realized just how short he was. Most Nord men were over six feet tall, and it was refreshing to have someone look up to her.  
He pursed his lips and nodding. The silence that followed quickly became awkward, both of them nodding slowly and blinking.  
"Okay!" he said, slapping his hands together. "May I borrow some pants?"

"Sure," said Lydia.

Wren hesitated like he expected her to pull a pair of pants from a pocket or something. "They're at my house." She walked out of the room and when she realized that Wren wasn't following, she looked back in time to see him grab a slab of meat from a nearby table and hold it in front of his crotch. He walked after her and nodded, prompting Lydia to keep walking.

Ignoring the laughter that erupted from virtually every inhabitant of the Palace, she began the walk home. The cold outside nipped at her ears and nose and she could only imagine what discomfort the pantsless Wren was going through. Once during the walk, she glanced back to check on him, and caught him staring at her ass. She looked forward immediately, blushing.

Wren blew air into his cheeks. Lydia had just caught him staring at her butt. She didn't seem displeased, and even though he couldn't see her face, he would bet anything she was blushing right now. For the rest of the walk, he got the distinct impression her hips might be swinging slightly more than before.

Author's Note: Yeah, short chapter. I just got a new laptop and let me say, the switch from Ubuntu to Windows 8 is NOOOOT going well. I accidentally deleted half this chapter with the frikkin' touchscreen. AAAAAAAAAAAGH!

Anyone notice that I didn't mention vampiric sweetrolls this chapter? Don't worry, I'll make up for it next chapter. There will be a gigantic 600-foot sweetroll (there won't.) but fortunately, Wren will have seven arms (he won't) and Lydia will have a pet troll (maybe). 


	4. Boobies!

Author's Note Mild nudity be ahead...

Lydia pulled her horse up along Wren's, its gait bouncing her up and down. Less experienced riders would be sore by now, after all the riding that they had been doing. Wren had decided to make the journey from Whiterun to Riften in as short time as possible and seemed oddly rushed, his eyes flicking from the right to the left. In fact, he had been silent - almost unpleasantly so - since they had been to see the Jarl about his formal appointment of Thane, both with pants firmly affixed to their legs (thank the Gods). After she had taken him to her home, he had taken a pair of Rognak's old pants and they had embarked upon the walk back to the Palace. There, Lydia had been formally assigned as his Housecarl and Wren had been appointed Thane. She had little idea how he would gain much respect as he had trekked across Whiterun pantsless, and she had suggested that they take their leave to save him (and by extent her) from the jeers that were sure to result.  
Unbeknownst to her, Wren had received a package from a Courier while she was speaking to the Jarl and the contents of before mentioned package had much more to with their sudden departure than his concern with how others perceived him. He still had the letter in his pocket, and would reach up ever so often to feel it, make sure that it was real and not a figment of his overactive imagination. Most of the figments of his imagination involved either a woman or a sword - he was a simple elf of simple tastes - and this was neither.  
Wren wasn't one to regret past decisions - there wasn't much point in it - but this time he found himself rueing the day that he had set eyes on that Aretino boy. At the time, he had been in a tight spot (owed money to a Khajiit whore) and had had almost no choice but to accept the job. When he had arrived at the Riften Orphanage, he realized that he would have killed the old bitch Grelod anyway, just on principle, and any doubts he previously harbored about killing for a child melted away. He had strolled up, smiled, and beheaded her.  
And then collected the payment.  
Turns out that was a bad idea.  
Because now the Dark Brotherhood was out for his head.  
Actually, they had only sent him a threatening note, but when one receives mail from a guild of merciless, bloodthirsty assassins, one tends to worry. Wren blew air into his cheeks and blinked. He could have sworn he had seen - and there it was again. A figure, flashing in and out of sight in the woods by the sides of the trail, was most definitely approaching them. He held up one hand, the pretty much universal signal to stop, and dismounted, drawing an axe from a loop on his waist. He twirled it once while he stared into the trees lining the road. "What - " Lydia started to ask, when suddenly a man, brandishing a sword, leaped from the tree line behind Wren. The man drove the point of his blade straight towards Wren's heart. Screaming a warning, Lydia drew a dagger and in one smooth motion, brought it back and then forward, throwing it straight at the dark figure. The man's sword clanged of Wren's axe - he had spun when Lydia had screamed - and as Wren stepped back, her dagger thunked into their attacker's neck. He went down, gurgling and gasping. Wren and Lydia stood, him on foot, her on horseback, for a moment, anticipating another attack. Wren blinked and bent, rifling through the man's belongings. He withdrew a sweet roll, examined it, and tossed it at her. Lydia caught it, frowning.  
"Should we really be, you know," she gestured at the corpse. "Sure," said Wren, nodding. "I like sweet rolls."  
"No, not that. It just seems disrespectful, uh, to the dead." she said sheepishly.  
Wren rolled his eyes. "He was going to kill us."  
"Still."  
"You know, some of these men haven't had a women since around the First Era. D'you know what he would have done to your body?" he snorted. "Dead or alive, it don't really matter to them, if you catch m' meaning."  
Lydia gulped. "Fine, fine," said Wren. "I just need to find somethin'." He continued rooting through the man's belongings. "Ah! Here 't is." He brandished a contract for his death at her. Unfolding it, he read aloud. "Dear Thomas, I just want to say that I enjoyed last night immensely. Your use of the Mammoth's Tusk and vampire sweet rolls was extremely arousing. I hope that we can meet again and fu - " He abruptly stopped reading.  
"That, uh, that wasn't what I thought it was."  
"Indeed." Lydia was blushing slightly.  
"You know, looking at him, he don't even look Dark Brotherhood." muttered Wren, looking over the dead man's body. "Excuse me?" asked Lydia. She had grown up a farm girl and even in the boonies of Whiterun, rumours of the dreaded Dark Brotherhood circulated.  
"Oh, ah," he looked up. "Nothing." Suddenly, "Can I have that sweet roll back?"  
"No," she said, and clutched it protectively to her chest, rubbing frosting over the tight leather covering her breasts. He wasn't even going to comment, until the sweet roll, filled with frosting, burst. Thick, whitish frosting flew all over her. "Huh," remarked Wren. "That reminds me of a dream I 'ad last night." Lydia shook her arms, mouth open. He walked closer and said, "You got a little somethin' right," he gestured vaguely to her entire body, "everywhere, actually." Swiping frosting off her left breast with a thumb, he then stuck the digit in his mouth. Lydia was pretty much speechless. The expression on her face must have been somewhat comical, however, because as soon as he looked up at her face, Wren fell into the dirt, rolling and laughing.  
Suppressing the urge to trample him with her horse, she rode off, head held high in a dignified manner. Wren, still howling with laughter, mounted his horse and rode after her, catching up quickly.  
A few hours later, it was starting to get dark and Lydia still hadn't found a place to wash the creamy frosting off, which had since dried into a crust. Wren had offered to lick her clean, but she had politely declined with a "try it and die".  
"A'right." called Wren from up ahead. The dark elf had been trying to find a good campsite for the night. "Found a clearin' - and you'll love this - a stream."  
For a moment, she didn't understand, and then she remembered the crust coating her body from her upper thighs to her nose. "Finally!" she said, and rode forward to the running water, shedding clothing as she went. It was only when she was neck-deep in water and had thrown her underwear to the bank that a whistle reminded her she wasn't alone. Wren, leaning casually against a tree, was watching and smirking slightly.  
Deciding that cleanliness was more important than modesty, she dove underwater and scrubbed her face and hair. Coming back up, gasping, she swam sidestroke to the center of the stream. A splash alerted her that she was no longer alone in the water. She spun, fearing Slaughterfish, and saw a shirtless Wren surfacing. His long black hair was freed from its customary ponytail and hung down, soaking wet. His torso, dripping with water, had hard, lean muscle clearly outlined. His chest and arms were just as muscular as his legs, even more so. Long scars ran all over his chest and torso, some dropping beneath her view into the water.  
"Eyes 're up here!" Wren called, motioning up to his face. Lydia tore her eyes away from his body and, blushing, maintained eye contact. He winked at her and dived underwater, swimming towards her. At almost that exact moment, something slimy brushed against her belly. She quickly looked down, seeing only a gray shape wiggling underwater. A Slaughterfish. She quickly grabbed it, pulled it out of the water, and - ignoring the fact that it was biting her - flung it. She swam quickly to the opposite bank and pulled herself out of the water, scraping herself on some rocks by the bank. Blood welled.  
Wren called from the middle of the stream, "Look! I caught some - " he stopped when he saw her, laying on the bank, bleeding, panting, and naked.  
Her nipples, stiff from the cold water, pointed up from large, dripping globes. The water traced a trail down her body, her lithe waist and wide hips.  
He dropped the fish he had just caught. "Wh-What're ya doin'?"  
Panting, she pointed towards the water. "Slaughterfish." "Shit."  
"Yeah." The act of breathing made her breasts bounce slightly, enticing him. He tore his eyes off her chest and began swimming towards her, looking around him for any sign of the carnivorous fish. Something brushed his toe and he winced slightly but kept swimming. Just before he reached the bank, he frowned, feeling a disturbance in the water. Suddenly, a fish came leaping out of the water at his face. He batted it out of the way and clambered up onto the bank. Slaughterfish swarmed all around where he had been a second ago.  
He rose out of the water, thankfully wearing pants, and Lydia pretended to have not seen the large tent in the front of them. He sat down on a rock with a squelch, facing away from her. Out of the blue a thought struck Lydia. "My clothes!" The aforementioned articles of clothing were on the other side of the stream.  
"Shit," said Wren. Obviously he didn't mind that she was naked, but the tents and bedrolls were across the stream too, and it got cold at night in Skyrim. Real cold . . .

Author's Note BOOBIES! 


	5. Headbutt a Man's Ear Off

**Author's Note**

**I can use the bold! **

**Spoiler alert: Wren headbutts a man's ears off!**

Wren blew air into his cheeks and sighed. He had been walking back and forth along the river for the last hour, and had come no closer to finding a way to cross back to their supplies. Sitting down on a log, he ran over his options one more time. He could leave Lydia here to find help, although the chances of that happening before it got dark were dwindling. He could take her along, although a naked, weaponless woman stood no chance against any enemies they might encounter along the way. Best case scenario, they were both killed. Worst case, he was killed and she was captured and forced to ... serve ... his killers.

That wasn't happening.

Pursing his lips, Wren rose up off the log and began to walk back towards their camp. As he did so, the sun dropped behind the trees, sending a wave of shivers up his back. His breath began to form a cloud in front of his face and he sped up, the increased blood flow warming his body.

He broke through the trees that surrounded the clearing that they had built their new camp in at a dead run, and barely stopped before he stumbled into the small, but crackling fire that had been built in his absence. Smiling despite the cold, he sat as close to the fire as he could without catching fire and extended his hands, the fire sending waves of warmth up his arms.

It was still cold. Frigid, in fact.

Lydia picked up another branch and layed it on top of the large pile under her other arm. Shifting her hip to support the wood stack, she began to walk back to the campsite, humming. Suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees and goosebumps rose on her arms. She sped up, and like most people do when rushing, focused on her destination instead of her surroundings.

A twig snapped behind her, and she immediately spun, dropping the wood and raising her arms in a defensive stance. Only a few feet behind her stood three rough-looking men, wearing hide armor and carrying steel weapons. The one in front smiled at her and reached out his hand...

Wren looked up as a high-pitched, girly scream broke the silence of the cold night. Cursing, he rose and ran towards the source of the shrill noise.

Speeding over logs and under branches, his feet almost flying, he kept his eyes open for anything that could be used as a weapon. Even though he was sprinting, his breaths came in even, controlled intervals, and his feet made barely a sound on the forest floor.

Breaking away from the line of trees only about twenty seconds after the scream, he was greeted by a surprising sight. Lydia, stepping away from two men and shaking her bruised knuckles back and forth. Seeing a man on the ground clutching his face, Wren immediately stepped forward, realizing that his was about to turn ugly.

"You screamed?" he asked, and saw that her shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound of his voice.

"Nah," she said, not even looking at him. "That was him." She made a motion at the man rolling around on the ground. Wren nodded, frowning, and muttered:

"Coulda sworn that was a girl."

One of the two men, recovering from the shock of Wren, a shirtless well-muscled purple man that had apparently materialized from the forest, gave a shout and ran forward at Lydia, arms outstretched. She calmly waited until he was directly in front of her and grabbed his neck with one hand and his crotch with the other. Squeezing both - eliciting a gurgling squeal from the poor man - she spun and flung him to the ground.

Unfortunately, he managed to grab her hand as he fell, pulling her almost double onto him.

Seeing an oppurtunity, the stranger still standing ran up and grabbed Lydia from behind, twisting her arms painfully behind her, causing her to cry out. One hand kept her hands in a vice-like grip behind her while the other travelled slowly up her chest, settling on a soft, warm breast.

"NNNNNGH!" grunted Lydia, twisting, but to no avail. The man had her and was not planning on letting go.

Frowning, Wren stepped forward as the two men on the ground lurched to their feet, one holding his testicles, and the other holding his face where a large bruise was forming. They sneered at him and approached, enjoying the expression on his face when Lydia squealed again.

The man holding her let his hand slip down from her breast to her groin, and Wren snapped.

His hands clapped straight into the first man's ears, most likely deafening him for the rest of his life. Instead of letting go, Wren's hands tightened around the ears themselves, getting a grip before slamming his head several times into the other man's face. On the third impact, the man's left ear actually came off in Wren's hand.

Throwing it to the side, Wren smiled at him. The man screamed, his eyes wide open, and then screamed louder when he realized that he couldn't hear himself. He turned and ran, still shrieking.

The second man looked understandably concerned, and hesitated a moment before approaching Wren, raising his sword.

Wren grinned.

Thinking he had scored a reprieve, the man began to chuckle, hoping to score points.

Stalking forward, Wren grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground - with one arm. "Think that's funny?" he snarled, the picture of insanity.

"Wait till you hear dis one!" Throwing the man to the ground, he kicked him once, and a snap echoed as his bare foot hit the man's armored leg. Reaching down, Wren lifted the man's head off the ground and punched him full force in the face, knocking the man's head to the ground with such force that it bounced back up - right into Wren's hand.

"Knock-" Wren roared as he pounded the man again. "Knock-" The man's head hit the ground and blood spurted, but Wren took no notice. "Who's-" CRACK "There-" CRACK

Lydia felt the the man holding her shift as they watched Wren pound his opponent's head into the ground over and over, blood splashing from both her friend's hand and the stranger's head. It was almost two minutes before Wren exhausted his knock knock joke repertoire, and when he straightened, neither his hand nor the other man's head was recognizable.

Breathing deeply, Wren began to walk towards them, and the man holding her finally lost his nerve. "You shall rue this day! RUUUUUUUUE IT!" He yelled, pushing Lydia violently towards Wren's small figure.

Wren's only response was to raise his unbroken hand to flip the coward the bird. Now that Lydia was safe, he had no reason to kill the man - and he was almost certain that he had broken his right hand and foot on the second stranger. Feeling a throb of pain in his face, he reached up and pinched his nose, and his hand came away bloody.

"Ow."

Lydia wrapped her arms around him as the full extent of what had just happened hit her. He had risked his life for her. As her Thane, he was supposed to just leave her if she was ever captured. The general rule was that Housecarls were expendable; Thanes were not.

"You okay?" Wren asked, all concern. Holding her at arms length, he looked into her face. She found that she could not make eye contact. He was almost the second Thane that had died for her. She pulled him close, his uncomfortable height pressing his face into her breasts.

For once, neither of them cared.

**Author's Note:**

**So what, Wren's a little bit crazy.**


	6. More Boobies

**Author's Note:**

**Writing this chapter actually made me feel bad for Wren.**

Wren tightened the leather strap holding his steel bracer to his forearm, giving it a few tugs to make sure it wasn't going to fall off or flip around his arm randomly. He checked the rest of his armor, tightening a different strap under his left arm. Armor adjusted, big boy pants on, he pulled himself up onto his horse and started off down the trail at a steady trot.

That morning, the Slaughterfish had dispersed into the river and Wren had decided to risk the crossing, Lydia splashing along behind him in a frantic effort to avoid any meat-eating fish that might have remained. The cold night had frozen away most of the feeling in their bodies, and pulling on clothes had felt amazing, even if it meant that Wren had a harder time ogling his partner.

His aforementioned partner pulled her horse up beside his own, snapping him out of his conveniently placed flashback. He glanced up at her, a silent question in his eyes.

"There's a man," said Lydia, nodding over her shoulder, "following us."

"Okay." he replied, blinking. "I'll just - I mean, unless you want to - "

"No, no, it's really - I mean - "

They both stopped talking, staring everywhere but one another. This same air of awkwardness had been hovering over them since they had awoken in a slightly awkward position.

_Obviously, we were following a base instinct to conserve body heat by twining our bodies together, _said a voice in Wren's head. _There is an equally valid reason that I woke up with her breast in my hand, _ it added, almost as an afterthought.

"Right." Wren slipped off his horse suddenly, grabbing a mace from a saddlebag as he went. "I'm jus' gonna go-" he made a vague motion towards the trail behind them with the mace.

Lydia nodded, still not looking at him. He headed off down the trail, twirling the mace slightly. She relaxed slightly as he drew farther away, disappearing into the trees beside the road. Blowing air into her cheeks (a habit that she had unknowingly picked up from Wren), she winced as she remembered his face when they woke up.

After they had gone to sleep last night, she had rolled towards him and they had become intimately intertwined sometime over the course of the night. She had awoken with his hand on her right breast, squeezing lightly. She must have twitched since he had immediately awoken, squealed like a little girl, jumped back about three feet, and shaken his hand like it was on fire. But what made the biggest impression on her was the expression on his face - like he had just been slimed.

He must not like my breasts, she thought. Looking down, she couldn't find anything _wrong_ with them, and they seemed large and full, stretching her leather jerkin. Maybe he just doesn't like _me_, she speculated, feeling slightly hurt.

A cry jerked her from her thoughts. "Ow! No biting!" It was unmistakably Wren's voice. There was a brief silence, three THWACKs in quick succession, and then the sound of a body hitting the ground. A moment later, Wren stepped into the road, carrying an apple. Mace tucked under his arm, he bit into the fruit while strolling towards her.

"Bashtahd bi' meh," he said with his mouth full, spitting apple bits all over. She snorted. "Not funny," he said, swallowing. " 'M bleedin'." He held up his arm, showing her a mouth mark on his wrist leaking a tiny amount of blood.

Putting the apple in his mouth and biting down so that he could use both hands, he turned and climbed onto his horse, slipping the mace into his belt. They rode on in silence, and suddenly she felt like she needed to know that he didn't hate her - or her breasts.

"Wren?"

"Yeh?"

"Why don't you like my breasts?"

A chunk of apple shot out of his nose as he snorted and then coughed. Spinning to face her, eyes wide, he blushed and said, in the brilliant fashion he had: "Wha'?"

She started to blush too. "Nevermind."

Frowning, he looked at her. "Why wouldn' I like yer breasts?" His eyes flicked down to the aforementioned globes and back up to her face.

"Well," she hesitated, "You didn't want to touch them."

"I'd love to touch yer boobs!" he blurted, eyes bulging when he realized what he had just said.

"Oh." She blinked. "That's good."

They kept riding in silence, Wren mentally cursing, Lydia looking at her chest. They were rather nice, she allowed. Reaching up with one hand, she sort of bounced one. It felt nice and she bounced the other. Hearing a choking noise, her gaze shot up to see Wren, eyes wide, pupils dilated, and mouth hanging open.

He had turned back to tell her that they were almost to a small town called Rorikstead (he had decided that this would be the best place to hide from the Dark Brotherhood if they did end up hunting for him) and instead been confronted by the sight of Lydia playing with her rack.

"Fu ... fu ... dah?" he managed, eyes still glued to her chest.

"Eyes up here," she said, grinning. He made eye contact and blinked, shaking his head slightly.

"Rorikstead," he said, pointing a shaky finger behind him at the road.

After renting rooms at the local inn, Wren stayed at the bar while Lydia went to clean up. Looking around, Wren could see no obvious threats, and so he relaxed slightly, leaning into his drink.

A large crash from downstairs alerted Lydia to trouble. Pulling on a shirt and grabbing a sword, she ran down the stairs in time to see Wren, kicking and flailing, being dragged out into the street. Panicking, Lydia gave chase, and exited the door at a dead run.

What she saw in the street made her blood run cold. Men were holding her friend's limbs down while another stood over Wren's body, holding a sword.

"Cummon then, ya bastard!" yelled Wren, still flailing.

And the man brought the sword down, straight into the right side of Wren's ribcage. As the sword thunked home and blood splashed, Lydia noticed Wren's killer was the third man that had tried to rape her the night before.

**Author's Note:**

**Is Wren dead?**

**(spoiler alert)**

**Maybe.**

**Okay, so maybe that wasn't such a spoiler.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Yeah, yeah, I hated last chapter too. I just needed a way to bump Wren off.**

Wren frowned. This in itself should be impossible. Why? Because he's dead. No, really, I lied at the end of last chapter. He's dead.

Sitting up, he rubbed his head and frowned again. His chest hurt, his head hurt, and he was hungry. Speaking of hunger ... He could smell cooking meat. Rising and looking around, he realized that he was standing in the middle of a huge stretch of sand, with little hills and no end in sight. Oddly, he had not a particle of sand on him, even though he had been laying on the ground.

Walking around a large dune, the sounds of glasses clinking and loud voices joined the smell of meat. Warily, he rounded another large pile of sand.

Sitting directly in front of him was a large wooden table, covered in plates and food, and surrounded by large, decorated chairs. Sitting on the chairs were figures, some of which he recognized and some he didn't.

With a groan, he straightened and pinched himself.

The man sitting at the head of the table spun and grinned at him.

"Wondering when you'd show up, old chap!"

"Sheogorath. Can't say I'm pleased. Why am I here?" After his last experience with Daedric Princes (involving a ring, cannibalism, and a forever after unsatiable hunger for dead people), he wasn't too excited to see most - if not all - of the Daedric princes gathered in one place, especially if they were expecting him.

"Why, you're dead!"

The Daedric princes showed a small amount of interest in this statement, and then went back to staring at Wren, which was really starting to creep him out.

"Bulls-"

"No, you're really dead." He turned to the speaker, a small woman with a heart-shaped face and red hair.

"Mara?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

Wren spun and examined the nearest princes.

"Dibella?"

The curvy, blonde woman smirked at him seductively and replied: "Yes."

"Sanguine?"

"'Bout time you noticed!" The prince grinned at him and Wren smiled back. Sanguine, while not quite friendly, had once led Wren on an escapade across half of Skyrim.

"Molag-Bal?" The forbidding, hooded figure nodded at him.

As he went through the list of known Daedric princes, Wren started to realize that something was seriously wrong. It was extremely abnormal for this many princes to gather, and it meant, in layman's terms, that _shit was going down._

He said as much and they laughed.

"Well, you're dead."

Wren nodded, and Sheogorath continued.

"And, in regard to the fishsticks, the mammoth - and his giant - deserved it!" He continued defensively.

Wren blinked and nodded hesitantly.

Sanguine rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"Well, we're not sure if we're gonna make you _un_-dead."

Wren frowned.

"Re-alive you."

"Well, let's go!" Wren was almost one hundred percent sure that this was a whacked-out dream, but it paid to be cautious...

"This is not a whacked-out dream." Sanguine said.

"And we're not quite sure if we _should_ reanimate you. You haven't been - "

"Killing enough people," Molag-Bal supplied.

"Having enough sex," Dibella said.

"Drinking enough booze," Sanguine added.

"_Drinking of the Blood of Deceit!_" Mephala shrieked.

"Okay, one, I'm trying." Wren said to the first three and, turning to Mephala, "And two, that's disgusting - I'm not gonna _drink_ dead people."

"Yeah - dead people are for eating!" agreed (kind of) Namira.

Wren shuddered.

"We're getting off topic, people!" screamed Sheogorath, needing the attention. "If you want us to reanimate you, you need to agree to some terms." This was directed at Wren.

"How can I be sure that I'm dead?" Wren asked. It would be just like a Daedric prince to fake his death to get him to do something. He wasn't agreeing to anything before he could see proof.

"Take off your pants!" supplied Dibella. Mara elbowed her and frowned. "Well, it'd make me feel better."

Wren frowned.

Sanguined nodded at him, and suddenly he wasn't wearing a shirt. In the middle and slightly to the left of his chest, there was a huge hole, as if from a large sword.

"Shit." Wren said, feeling dizzy.

"That proof enough?" Sanguine reached up to an ear, pulled out a piercing, and flicked it at Dibella without looking. It fell down her shirt. "Whoops."

Sanguine began to fish for his piercing with his tongue, prompting delighted squeals from Dibella. Molag-Bal rose and spoke from under his dark hood.

"If you're just going to waste my time, maybe we don't need the Dragonborn after all."

"Whoa!" Sanguine leaped up. "Do you know how many drinks he's quaffed?"

"How many ladies he's pleasured?"

"How many _fishsticks he's eaten_?"

"He can't just ... _die._"

Wren raised an eyebrow. Looks like he was doing well in the Daedric princes' eyes.

"If we bring him back, he will have risen from legend to practically _demi-god_." argued Molag-Bal, not unreasonably. "All the mortals will want special treatment - Oh, I've been laid two doxen times - can I have immortality?"

"Hold up - we're making him immortal?!" Dibella looked excited.

"That was not the agreement!" huffed Namira. "I called his body."

Wren shuddered again.

"No, we're not making him immortal." Sanguine said.

"We making him a Daedric lord then?" Dibella seemed more and more excited. "Or better, a simple Daedra? I'll be his mistress." She blew him a kiss.

Wren held his arms out and said deadpan, "Whip me, mistress. Beat me for my sins."

Dibella smirked. "I like this one."

"As do I." Sanguine said, "Perhaps for different reasons."

"We can hope." muttered Sheogorath. Out loud, he said, "I like him too."

"I agree." murmured Mara, still looking directly at Wren.

"Fine." said Namira.

"So, let there be life." With an exaggerated motion, Sanguine pointed straight at Wren with both hands. There was silence, and then, after about thirty seconds, when nothing happened, a small laugh from Dibella.

Wren frowned.

Sanguine frowned. Looking at his pointer fingers, he flexed them and then opted for the middle-finger point instead. "Let's try this again."

"Let there be _LIFE_!"

Wren blacked out.

Lydia sat on the bench in front of Wren's body. In just a moment, his body would be lowered onto a funeral pyre that sat waiting, and burned to ash.

She wasn't ready for that. He was her friend, and maybe, with enough time, he could have been something else. Something more.

Tears dripped from Lydia's eyes as Anya (another Housecarl) hugged her. "It'll get better." Anya whispered in her ear.

Lydia knew she was right, but it didn't make it better.

Coming back to Whiterun had been a blur. She had gotten on a horse with Wren's body and ridden back, and it was only now that she saw his body being prepped for incineration that his death really sunk in: he was never going to smile, tease, or flirt with her again. He was never going to kill the dragons. He was never going to kiss her, or make love to her.

He wasn't going to be doing much of anything, ever again.

The funeral directors picked up his body, and with little ceremony, threw it onto the flames.

"Shit." Sanguine said, watching the entire thing happen.

"Didn't see that one coming." agreed Namira.

"What do we do now?" asked Dibella.

"Wait." said Molag-Bal. "We wait and see what happens."

"I'm hungry," said Sheogorath.

**Bam! Suspense, bitches!**

**BTW, I don't want to have my body burned for that exact reason: I may come back to life and be all, "WTF, I'm on fire!". I wanna have my body stuffed and mounted.**


End file.
